Marcello coughed a little as he and Corbario trudged home through the sand under the hot May sun.  It was sultry, though there were few clouds, and everything that grew looked suddenly languid; each flower and shrub gave out its own peculiar scent abundantly, the smell of last year’s rotting leaves and twigs all at once returned and mingled with the odours of green things and of the earth itself, and the heavy air was over-rich with it all, and hard to breathe.  By and by the clouds would pile themselves up into vast grey and black fortresses, far away beyond Rome, between the Alban and the Samnite hills, and the lightning would dart at them and tear them to pieces in spite, while the thunder roared out at each home-thrust that it was well done; and then the spring rain would sweep the Campagna, by its length and breadth, from the mountains to the sea, and the world would be refreshed.  But now it was near noon and a heavy weariness lay upon the earth.

“You are tired,” said Corbario, as they reached the shade of some trees, less than half a mile from the cottage.  “Let us sit down for a while.”

They sat down, where they could see the sea.  It was dull and glassy under the high sun; here and there, far out, the sluggish currents made dark, irregular streaks.

Corbario produced cigarettes and offered one to Marcello, but the boy would not smoke; he said that it made him cough.

“I should smoke all the time, if I were quite well,” he said, with a smile.

“And do many other things that young men do, I daresay,” laughed Corbario.  “Ride steeplechases, play cards all night, and drink champagne at breakfast.”

“Perhaps.”  Marcello was amused at the picture.  “I wonder whether I ever shall,” he added.

Corbario glanced at him curiously.  There was the faintest accent of longing in the tone, which was quite new.

“Why not?” Folco asked, still smiling.  “It is merely a question of health, my dear boy.  There is no harm in steeplechases if you do not break your neck, nor in playing cards if you do not play high, nor in drinking a glass of champagne now and then—­no harm at all, that I can see.  But, of course, so long as your lungs are delicate, you must be careful.”

“Confound my lungs!” exclaimed Marcello with unusual energy.  “I believe that I am much stronger than any of you think.”

“I am sometimes inclined to believe it too,” Corbario answered encouragingly.

“And I am quite sure that it would do me good to forget all about them and live as if there were nothing the matter with me.  Don’t you think so yourself?”

Corbario made a gesture of doubt, as if it were possible after all.

“Of course I don’t mean dissipation,” Marcello went on to say, suddenly assuming the manner of an elderly censor of morals, simply because he did not know what he was talking about.  “I don’t mean reckless dissipation.”

“Of course not,” Folco answered gravely.  “You see, there are two sorts of dissipation.  You must not forget that.  The one kind means dissipating your fortune and your health; the other merely means dissipating melancholy, getting rid of care now and then, and of everything that bores one.  That is the harmless sort.”